And all for the picking of lilac's in the spring,
and chasing her furtive smile,
(she always smiled)
tenderly touching the whisper of; her smiling
,
memory.

Sadness drags the picture up more often these days,
rocking in my (solitude) chair
for it rains now, most always,
but for me it is spring
and the lilac's are blooming
and the fair maden is smiling,
whispering a;
hair blown by the dancing wind with
her alive eyes sparkling
she tenderly aproaches
and secretly,
tenderly,
gently, lays a whisper on my ear.
tommorrow

                                            cs schorb
-----------------------------------------------------